Mom climbed out of Dad’s Buick, slamming the door shut. That’s when I looked up from playing Minecraft, her dynamic exit riveting my focus. Perhaps because she didn’t cry or yell, like she’d done before. She was practically tap-dancing down Mount Auburn Street, walking with a wisp of whimsy, each swift step echoing on the pavement. I admired her ability to master those pointy red shoes.
Mom had cajoled and coerced, calmed and coddled our father for years, while I sat in the backseat, a witness to her inequity, her willingness to crack him open, to reinvent him into the man she dreamed he could be. Even I knew that Dad’s transformation needed to be an inside job, but Mom worked Dad from the sidelines.
Dad held her on reserve, because more important matters concerned him: Work, almighty, all-important, never-ending work, because “it was our bread and butter”. That was until Mom started making bread too. From what I could gather – when my earbuds weren’t in – Mom also brought home the bacon. And she carried our overpriced American health insurance. This seemed to be a big deal. Apparently, Dad needed to appreciate Mom. “Stop treating me like a 24-hour activity coordinator,” she proclaimed often enough. Their talk, to my adolescent ears, was like static on the radio in between Dad blasting the Rolling Stones and Cheap Trick.
Dad was still driving when mom exited the car. At the red light, Mom unlatched the door and stepped out. I was impressed by her decisive action, and by how she balanced in those stilts she thought of as shoes. Her slit skirt blew up in the back and allowed us to see more of her thighs. That’s when I noticed Dad’s expression. I couldn’t tell if it was shock, fury, or amazement at how good Mom’s legs looked.
“She’s a wild woman!” Dad said, while I thought, “She’s an acrobat”. She navigated the sidewalk, the cracks and the cobblestoned streets with a briefcase, a purse, and a coffee-to-go cup, all while the wind pushed her sideways.
“I don’t know what she wants from me,” Dad said. “ She says, I don’t take initiative. But I go to work. Isn’t that initiative enough? I make coffee for her every morning. I shovel snow off the car. I always make sure you unload the dishwasher and take out the garbage. What more could she want?”
Dad was a middle-aged man insisting that he was a great guy. If that was so, why hadn’t he parked the car and run after Mom? Was it my place to tell him to man-up? I was a fifteen-year-old boy sitting in the backseat.
And I’d heard it all before, even though I hadn’t wanted to hear any of it. Mom was fed up with Dad, with his passive, depressed, sad dog eyes that made her Italian temper flare. I had heard her telling Dad off on several occasions: “All you do is complain about work, but we all work. You complain about traffic, but we live in a freaking city. You complain about the state of the world, but what are you doing to make a difference? So, you’re depressed, take a pill, alienated by the world, who isn’t? Get over it. Lighten up!”
Even if Dad was deaf (a possibility considering how loud he played music on the radio), one only needed to catch a glimpse of Mom’s glaring dark eyes to know she meant business. Dad really needed to learn how to read a room – and especially our car, poor devil.
But that day in the car was different. She hadn’t said a word.
I suppose some moms might quit, but our mom was solid. Her MO was practical and instructive: “Go get a Band-Aid and don’t bleed on the carpet.” Admittedly, she had often said, “Someday I’m going to quit.” Dad loved to reply, “Moms can’t quit.” And laugh. That was one of her big complaints.
Now there was Mom walking away from us. I knew she’d still be my Mom, but I never doubted that she was leaving him. Head high, she practically glided toward Harvard Square. I was proud of her, my mom the acrobat on heels.
Mom eventually came home and life carried on for me, but it was different for our dad. Mom didn’t quit being our mom, but she quit being Dad’s mom.
Marie G. Coleman is a New Yorker based in New Hampshire. She holds an MFA from Lesley University. Her work has appeared in Funny Pearls, Hippocampus, Pangyrus, the Evening Street Review and Gemini. She teaches English at Rivier University and is currently working on a braided memoir.
mariegcoleman.com
Illustration by Funny Pearls